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3,> P\) IM t, II I ///? He belongs there, For I know by looking into his eyes Exactly about his grandfather, Whose house it once was, Whose hands set the chain That draws the bucket of sweet mountain water, Whose feet wore away the first layer of clay Where now there's a path up the slope, Whose eyes looked past ripshin and teasel Whose bride wove the patterns still draped on the beds, Scrubbed with red knuckles the rippling floors, The funhouse glass of the windows, The pine-sappy knees of his father, Who also belonged, Those eyes, those life-searching eyes, being passed Generation to generation Through this ragged and beautiful house. -- Barbara Smith To the soft-swollen, round-shouldered hills That have always known his name,
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Jan 8, 1982
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